


Love Will Bring You Nothing

by shadesofhades



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunken Confessions, Episode Related, Episode: s04e01 Welcome to Korea, M/M, mention of infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/pseuds/shadesofhades
Summary: He's too drunk to care that he'll regret this in the morning -- until then he has a few things to get off his chest.





	Love Will Bring You Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> My first MASH fic, so please be gentle.
> 
> I've been living under a rock my whole life. I just saw the show for the first time a few weeks ago. Still waiting for the rest of the seasons to come in at the library, so I'm sure I'll eventually write more? 
> 
> I hadn't intended to make this so angsty. It got away from me. Thanks to Annabeth for the beta.
> 
> Title is from a song by Birdeatsbaby

The gin burns going down just like it always does, but nothing feels the same. 

That is probably the reason he’s spending the day alone in the Swamp, swilling the last of the paint thinner Trapper liked to call gin instead of getting a nurse to play doctor with him. He has always appreciated a game of hide the thermometer, but the gin had been waiting for him when he got back from R & R, a final gift from Trapper, who probably understood how much he would need it after he left; it just seemed like a shame to waste it. Trapper probably meant for him to throw a party, to share what remained in the still with their friends, but Hawkeye isn’t feeling in the sharing mood tonight. In fact he hasn’t been in the sharing mood since he realized he missed Trap by ten minutes.

Ten measly minutes. The war couldn’t even give him that.

Forgetting, for a moment, that gravity can be a cruel mistress, he lies back on the bed and attempts to down the rest of the glass. The gin spills over the edge and pours over his face and chest, soaking his t-shirt and robe. His eyes are instantly burning even before the olive at the bottom of the glass rolls out and hits him square in his open eyeball. He licks his wet lips and comptemplates trying to sit up and refill his glass, but his limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. He doesn’t manage more than lifting his shoulders off the mattress before he falls back with a soft laugh at himself.

It isn’t really funny, to be too drunk to even pick himself off the bed, but he’ll take humor where he can find it at the moment.

He’s reaching blindly over the edge of his army issue cot for anything to at least wipe the booze from his eyes when a voice makes him pause with his fingers brushing something cotton on the floor.

“Is he like this often?”

It takes a moment to place the voice -- it isn’t like others that he can pick out between and through the sounds of heavy artillery -- it takes actual thought that he’s barely capable of at the moment to put BJ’s face to that voice. When he turns his head and peers out the mosquito netting around his tent he can see long legs in olive drab not far away, but the rest of BJ disappears behind the curl of the tent flap. He only takes a moment to appreciate the cut of BJ’s uniform pants before he turns away to grab the article of clothing from the Swamp floor. 

“Like what, Captain?” Radar asks -- and there’s no way Hawkeye could not recognize that voice, he hears it often enough in his nightmares, informing him of incoming wounded.

“Getting drunk by himself in the middle of the day?”

It’s five o’clock somewhere, he thinks as he uses a pair of dirty boxers to wipe the spilt gin from his face. They smell like stale sweat, but they get the job done and his eyes aren’t burning quite as bad.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Radar answers immediately, but then there’s a pause before he says, “but I’ll admit he usually manages to show up for lunch.”

BJ seems to think about that for a moment, and when Hawkeye drops the boxers back to the ground and watches BJ’s legs again he can see the way he shifts with discomfort. Maybe he hasn’t broken his feet in yet -- it had taken him at least two months here before his feet had finally gotten used to the army regulation boots he wore every day.

“Do you think it has anything to do with his friend leaving?” 

There’s concern in his voice, and Hawkeye might be touched if he were a touch more sober. Instead, he lies there wondering if he should just answer for himself, tell them both to just shove it and shove off because they're ruining his one-man drinking party. How is he supposed to wallow in self-pity with them going on about him behind his back -- or front -- or whatever this is?

He’s opening his mouth to tell them both to beat it when Radar answers BJ.

“Oh, Captains McIntyre and Pierce were more than just friends.” 

Out of the mouths of babes, Hawkeye thinks with a groan even as his body tenses in a sort of knee-jerk response to how casually he says the damning words. He hadn’t thought they’d been so obvious, but he should have known better considering Radar’s gift.

“They were _best_ friends,” Radar says happily and Hawkeye has to force his muscles to unwind in relief. “I rarely saw them apart.”

He lets out a breathy nervous chuckle before he pushes off the cot to fill his glass once more. Trust Radar to know too much, but be held back from making the connection by his own innocence. Kid probably wouldn’t understand a blue discharge if he were involved in it.

“Thanks, Radar,” BJ says, and Hawkeye can picture the wide smile on his handsome face as he claps Radar on the arm. “I’ll see if I can talk to him.”

“I think that’s a good idea. He seems to like you, and between you and me, I'm worried about him.”

He smiles into his martini glass at that. Of course he likes BJ. BJ is very likeable -- the problem will be if he starts to actually _like_ BJ like he had with Trapper. He can’t begin to understand his attraction to married men -- they're supposed to be as off-limits as married women, but his father hadn’t spent most of his youth steering him away from them. Of course, had he known Hawkeye had thought about men like that, or at all, maybe that speech might have gone differently.

BJ isn’t like Trapper though -- Trap had come here already unfaithful and unhappily married, the whole thing between them had seemed inevitable -- BJ is happy in his marriage; Hawkeye had already heard enough about Peg the last week to realize that BJ may be fast becoming his friend, but that’s all that would ever come between them.

Still, even if they were already friends, the conversation with Radar seemed like a bit of a betrayal.

Hawkeye plops back on the bed, drink already halfway empty -- because he's in a glass half-empty mood right now -- waiting for BJ to enter.

It takes a minute, maybe BJ had been on his way to the latrine before he’d come across Radar, but eventually the creak of the rusted hinges announces his presence and Hawkeye takes another drink before he says, 

“Welcome home, honey. I’d offer you a martini, but I ran out of vermouth hours ago. This is just pure lighter-fluid now.”

“That’s okay, Hawk,” he says with a smile as he sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to untie his boots. “I don’t mind.”

“If you’re lucky it will burn off your taste buds before dinner.”

BJ laughs, and for a few seconds the tent feels too warm, but then the moment is gone and BJ is pulling off his boots and letting them drop to the floor with twin ‘clunks’.

Ever the gracious host, even towards a party-crasher, Hawkeye shakily gets to his feet and manages to make his way over to the still, only spilling a little of the remnants in his glass.

“Let me help you,” BJ says gently when Hawkeye reaches for the second glass, his hand reaching out to stop Hawkeye’s before it can reach anything breakable. He probably shouldn't even be trusted with the one he's already holding, but they couldn't prise it from his cold, dead fingers now.

He silently fills the other glass, and Hawkeye hands his over with a,

“Fill ‘er up, Beej.”

BJ complies with a sigh, taking it from his hand and Hawkeye knows instantly that the peace between them is about to break -- be can feel it in the shifting air.

“We missed you at Mess earlier. If you stop showing up for too long Frank’ll think he’s won.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find some way to embarrass him publicly later,” Hawkeye says, trying to sound reassuring.

BJ just frowns at that and hands the martini glass back. The liquid sloshes over the sides as Hawkeye takes it into unsteady hands, and it takes all of Hawkeye’s remaining willpower not to lick the split drops from BJ’s open hand. 

He’s probably had too much if he’s even thinking about that -- or maybe not enough if he still has the power to stop himself -- but still he takes another drink and waits for the other shoe to drop.

He’s not disappointed.

“It’s okay to be upset about him leaving, you know.”

“I know,” Hawkeye responds quietly, his gut churning from too much drink even as he sips more.

“You can talk to me,” BJ assures him, taking a large swallow from his own glass. Hawkeye watches his throat work and has to look away.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not in a chatty mood.”

“I know he was your best friend, Hawkeye, but do you think drinking yourself to death will help?”

“I’m conducting an experiment to find out,” Hawkeye says blithely, words starting to slur a little. 

BJ frowns and sets his glass down on the tabletop -- it’s obvious that this conversation is going nowhere.

“I know I’m not the same as Trapper, but I’m trying to be a friend.”

Hawkeye didn’t think that name coming from his lips could hurt so bad, but it feels like a stab to the heart, Trapper’s name from his replacement’s lips. He likes BJ, but truthfully what Hawkeye needs isn’t a replacement for Trapper John McIntyre -- he needs a reprieve from the feelings of betrayal that come with even thinking his name. 

“Everyone is worried.”

“They shouldn’t be.”

“Even _Frank_ is asking if you’re--”

He’s had enough -- finally he decides to end the conversation for good, grabbing the front of BJ’s shirt and dragging him forward. He barely processes exactly what he’s about to do before his drink splashes over the rim of his glass and over both their t-shirts -- it soaks right through his red robe, already wet with wasted alcohol, but this time it drenches him to the skin -- and then their lips meet. 

It’s clearly a moment of brief madness on his own part, but the strangest part of the whole experience is that for a few short seconds Hawkeye swears BJ’s lips are moving against his own. But before he can confirm whether it’s the wishful thinking of his own alcohol-addled brain or if BJ is _actually_ kissing him, BJ’s hand comes between them and suddenly he’s falling on to his own bunk. BJ’s eyes are wide and wild and Hawkeye gives him a moment to pull himself together, sipping at what’s left in his glass, before he does anything else reckless.

If he’s lucky BJ will just leave and go to see Frank. Maybe if he's lucky BJ will turn him in so Hawkeye can go back home -- far away from this war and heartache.

Maybe he could go to Boston. He could find Trapper and --

And what? Demand that he leave his wife and run away with Hawkeye? They had both known the arrangement between the two of them had been temporary, that eventually Trapper would go back to his wife and kids and that Hawkeye would go back to Crabapple Cove and the whole thing would be just a distant memory -- it would just live as a small silver lining to the hell that is Korea. But a small part of him that refused to understand logic had actually hoped the war wouldn’t be the end of this thing between them.

“I can’t --”

_”I can’t do this with you, Hawk. Not right now,” Trapper had said, his back a tense line as he stood in front of the still._

_It was the first real fight they had ever had, at least as a couple, and it wasn’t even much of one. There were no harsh words, nothing was thrown, but it was a fight nonetheless and it had left him unsettled anyways, with the calmness Trapper had spoken with to his thoughtless words._

_He had never understood how much sex complicated happy relationships until then. Hawkeye sat heavily on the edge of his bed and stared at Trapper over the rim of his glass, watching carefully the way Trapper avoided his eye._

_“They’re just words, Trap,” Hawkeye offered. Trapper's shoulders dropped at that and Hawkeye knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say._

_“Maybe to you,” Trapper said quietly, setting his glass down a little too harshly against the tabletop. Hawkeye half-expected it to break and was already starting to make plans to spend the rest of their night picking shards of glass from Trapper’s hand, but the glass didn’t shatter from the impact, just rocked slightly in place before it settled down._

_“You don’t have to say them back, you know.”_

_He could see Trapper’s fingers tighten on the edge of the wooden table, his knuckles gone white with strain, the same strain that showed in his jaw as he ground his teeth._

_“You shouldn’t have said them at all,” Trapper snapped before he took a deep breath and loosened his grip on the table. He finally looked at Hawkeye, his eyes clouded over and haunted. “I have a wife and kids.”_

_“And more one-night stands than I can count,” Hawkeye accused, well aware that this thing between them wasn’t something Trapper could add to that list and that made things so much harder for him._

_“But they don’t expect nothin’ outta me. None of them have ever told me they_ loved _me,” Trapper said and he sounded scared._

_It was a careless sentiment thrown out in the middle of sex -- he had meant it, but it wasn't meant to mean so much._

_If he could, Hawkeye would take the words back, and they could return to just being fuck-buddies looking for a way to pass a war -- but Trapper couldn’t unhear them and for that Hawkeye was truly sorry because nothing between them could ever be that simple again._

“--be his replacement, Hawkeye.”

BJ’s hand is on his shoulder when Hawkeye comes back to himself, trying to shake off the ghost that Trapper left behind.

“I’m not asking you to be,” Hawkeye says, and it sounds defensive even to his own ears, but what the hell does he know, he’s so drunk he could probably blame this whole incident on the gin and BJ would believe it.

He tries to lean back on the bed and lounge on his forearm, but he’s shaking so badly that his elbow couldn’t possibly hold him up for more than a few seconds, so he abandons the casual look and tries not to look terrified as he processes what he did.

For all his bravado, a discharge for this would mess up his entire life. He could lose everything -- his father, his career, his friends. After months of sneaking around with Trapper it seems ridiculous to think that one alcohol and idiocy-induced screw-up could end it all so easily.

“I just want you to tell Frank so I can get my discharge and go home, get out of this hellhole they call Korea.”

BJ drops heavily to his own bed, the metal beneath him straining at the sudden weight put upon it. BJ glances down nervously and Hawkeye gives a snort of humorless laughter.

“Don’t worry, it’s had worse.” 

He doesn’t mention the worse it’s had is Trapper and Hawkeye’s combined weights while they had fooled around. BJ need not know how tainted his bed is, even after Frank’s attempt to clean. Truthfully, he can probably never look at that bed again without thinking about cold nights spent pressed together in the tight space, trying to keep themselves quiet as Frank slept just a few feet away.

BJ decides to turn his concern to him instead of his creaking bed, and Hawkeye finds himself wishing he hadn't spoken.

“You don’t need to go home -- you need to talk to someone.”

“Of course I need to go home. I need to, you need to -- we all need to. I’m tired of fighting MacArthur's war. I’m tired of meatball surgery -- of putting kids back together hardly old enough to shave. What’s wrong with wanting out?”

BJ shakes his head.

“Not like this. That kind of thing doesn’t stay in the Army. It could ruin your life.”

He bites his tongue and doesn’t point out the Army already did that the moment he was drafted. 

“Then I’ll borrow a dress from Klinger, act nuttier than a fruitcake,” Hawkeye says desperately. “They’ve been taking bets about me, you know -- about when I’m finally going to crack. It would make Frank’s day to send me home with a nice section 8. Klinger might not like me too much after though.”

“I --”

_”I ain’t no queer,” Trapper told him, but there was no venom behind it, no words of disgust. He’d simply pushed a slightly drunk Hawkeye back to his bunk._

_His words lacked any kind of sting and he was pretty sure they were said more as a reminder to himself than to inform Hawkeye, the man who had been trying to coax him to return to the liplock they had been in moments before. Trapper had wanted Hawkeye to kiss him, he could sense it as clearly as rain before a storm. The tension between them had been almost palpable for weeks now, and they were finally both alone and just drunk enough for an excuse to break it._

_But Trapper had given him a new excuse._

_“Neither am I.”_

_It was not a particularly honest excuse, but with how much he enjoyed chasing nurses and occasionally catching them, it was hardly a flat out lie._

_Apparently that half-truth had been enough to soothe any doubts Trapper had because less than five minutes later Hawkeye found himself on his back with Trapper over him, nimble fingers wrapped around a certain part of his anatomy. They had kissed like they shared a set of lungs, and it was the first thing in the whole damn war that had made sense to him._

“-- I just want to help.”

Hawkeye pulls himself from the memory, but this time it lingers, and he can't shake it.

“After a year of living practically on top of each other--” he didn’t mean to say it like that, the words bringing to the surface memories that make him hot under the collar and bring a flush to his cheeks that have nothing to do with the alcohol in his hand. 

“We were so close people thought we were joined at the hips like a pair of siamese twins -- when Klinger started wearing dresses half the unit was convinced we were trying to start our own sideshow.”

BJ smiles at the joke and gives a good-natured chuckle, but he doesn’t interrupt -- maybe he’s convinced he’s going to finally get something good out of Hawkeye. Hawkeye is afraid he might be right.

“He was the only thing in this whole place that made the war bearable. He was my rock. And I didn’t even rate high enough on his list for a goodbye. Not even a note -- just a lousy third-party kiss from Radar, of all people.”

If he wasn’t feeling morose before this conversation, he certainly is now. BJ is doing a bang up job at trying to make things better -- luckily he is a better surgeon than therapist.

“I never realized what a difference ten minutes could make to a person’s sanity. Ten minutes sooner and I could have gotten that damn kiss in person. I could have had a real goodbye -- I could have had _closure_.”

It’s quiet between them for a long moment, BJ looking stunned at his outburst while Hawkeye likewise just tries to crawl inside his martini glass and lick away the last few drops that remain at the bottom. BJ doesn’t seem to have anything to add, so Hawkeye gets clumsily to his feet, his legs as wobbly beneath him as a newborn fawn -- and for a moment he isn’t sure they’ll hold him up -- but he’s had a lot of practice over the last year at forcing his body to obey him through exhaustion, drink and fear and he’s feeling particularly determined to drink himself into a coma.

He manages to stumble the few steps to the still and the glass that BJ left half-drunk. He downs it easily and reaches to pour himself another, acutely aware of the way BJ is quietly studying him. There’s only enough left to fill his glass halfway, but he swallows down his disappointment and picks up the glass, ready to stagger back to his side of the tent when BJ finally speaks again.

“Did he know you were in love with him?”

The words are spoken softly, and Hawkeye isn’t sure he hears them right. He’s clearly finally gone round the bend and his paranoia has gotten the best of him.

“What was that?” Hawkeye asks, rubbing his ear like that might help tune out the sound of the blood rushing to them.

He feels lightheaded and his stomach churns violently, and for a few seconds he’s sure the contents are about to climb their way up his esophagus. The gin had burned well enough going down, he isn’t sure he wants to experience it more than once.

BJ looks him right in the eyes this time, eyes darting away only briefly to look at the exposed sides of the tent that don’t give them much privacy. Not that it matters much considering Hawkeye has already kissed him in front of it.

“Did he know you were in love with him?”

He definitely hears it clearly that time -- the words sweeping his legs out from under him. There’s panic starting in the pit of his stomach, rising like bile as his backside hits the floor. He knows if he hadn’t ingested so much of Trapper’s homemade gin he might have felt that in his tailbone and up his spine, but instead he just feels numb.

It really is a minor miracle he manages to not spill anymore of his drink down his front.

BJ is on his feet right away, his hand warm on Hawkeye’s arm as he hauls him upwards towards the edge of the bed and snatches the glass from his hand. He lets Hawkeye settle awkwardly on the lumpy mattress before he empties the rest of the glass with a grimace and sets it aside.

“I think you’ve had enough. You can barely stand.”

He wants to be angry that BJ has finished the last of the gin -- Trapper’s gin -- but everything just seems to flow out of him as he pours himself into bed, his robe hanging obscenely open over his t-shirt and boxers.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye finally admits as his head rests on his pillow. His eyes are starting to feel heavy, but the feeling of BJ sitting down beside him on the narrow bed is enough to keep him awake, relishing the feeling of his warm thigh against Hawkeye’s, and trying not to pretend he’s someone else. “Trap knew how I felt.”

“Couldn’t have been easy,” BJ says, and there’s no trace of ill feeling or disgust there -- Hawkeye’s honestly too drunk now to even really judge that for sure, but he’s feeling optimistic. 

“It wasn’t,” Hawkeye admits softly, his hand reaching out for something -- and when BJ’s hand finds his he doesn’t pull away. “It’s hard enough around here trying to keep soldiers alive while knowing that the next bomb or sniper's bullet might have your name on it or your friend’s -- that is if you don’t die of exhaustion first. Add to that the constant fear of discovery -- afraid that maybe people will realize those jokes aren’t jokes and that you touch each other too much.”

He’s so tired, his brain feels sticky with drink and but his lips are too loose, spilling all his secrets. He hadn’t meant to, but it comes pouring out regardless.

“I can’t even imagine,” BJ says, his blue eyes clear and honest as he stares down at Hawkeye. There’s not an ounce of malice there and Hawkeye can’t help but think about the darkness that always seemed to lurk just beyond the surface of Trapper’s hazel eyes. 

“Henry caught us once, you know,” Hawkeye says, and he has no idea why he’s talking about this, except that his mouth seems to have run away with any of the brain power he had left. It wasn’t a funny story to be told as an anecdote at a poker game or at the mess tent over dinner -- it was funny in hindsight, but it had been one of the most terrifying moments of Hawkeye’s life, worse than any close call with a bullet, or the time he and Trapper had deactivated an unexploded bomb. But Henry is long gone, lost somewhere in the Pacific and Trapper has left him and telling the story somehow makes him feel less alone.

“What happened?” BJ encourages.

“We were in the supply tent -- naked as the day we were born -- when all the sudden Henry breaks down the door. I don’t know who was more surprised by his sudden appearance, us or him.”

Henry’s face had been like a bucket of cold water thrown over both of them. They had just frozen, the two of them in a position that couldn’t be described as anything except intimate and Henry had just stared and stared like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“He didn’t report you,” BJ says.

“Nah. Henry was a good egg,” he says, feeling warm at the thought. He may never of had really had any control over this unit, but Henry had been there when it counted and his death had affected them all.

“Besides, he was so drunk when he saw us that I don’t even know if he understood what he was looking at. Turned out he was trying to get to the latrine and had taken a wrong turn. It wasn’t hard to convince him he was dreaming. Poor guy probably thought he was crazy the next day, dreaming something like _that_. He gave us weird looks for a week. I thought Trapper was going to have an aneurysm every time he saw Henry. But when the looks stopped and he didn’t say anything, I figured he wouldn’t.” 

BJ gives a little laugh. “You were lucky he was so drunk.”

“No kidding. I thought I was going to have figure out a way to convince him that Trapper was giving me a physical in the nude. I know I can be convincing when I want to be, but that might have gone a bit beyond my abilities.”

Hawkeye lets out a laugh at his own comment, his hand dropping from BJ’s to push his hair from his forehead and rub his eyes. He didn’t even notice that they were wet until he feels it against his fingers.

“The whole thing might have been hilarious if Trapper hadn’t spent the whole week drunk and terrified that we were going to get discharged. He had a lot more a stake than I did and I think he just kept thinking about how he would face his wife and kids.”

His eyes burn and his stomach tightens at the thought of Trapper’s family -- maybe he could forget about Korea and Hawkeye and live his life as a dutiful husband and father, but it didn’t seem likely. He never liked to tell Trap that he was fooling himself into thinking going home would make his problems better, but the thought had never been too far from his mind every time Trapper talked about his family. This war had made them all damaged goods and Trapper never seemed to be able to accept that fact.

“I’m sure he understood the risks when he got involved.”

“I understood too, but it doesn’t help. I knew the whole thing was a temporary fling, that he’d go back stateside and pretend the whole thing never happened.” He’s rambling, but he can’t seem to stop himself, the words escaping like his soul has sprung a leak. “We were supposed to go home and just return to our lives but--”

“But your heart and head aren’t on the same page,” BJ says sagely, offering Hawkeye a sad smile.

His heart beats a little louder in his chest and for a moment it takes every last ounce of willpower not to kiss him again, to beg BJ to help him forget if only for a few minutes -- but he forces his hands up to wipe away the stupid tears that won’t quit.

“I’m sure my brain could have made my heart see the error of its ways if I could have gotten closure, but --”

“He never said, ‘Goodbye,’” BJ says in understanding.

“If we didn’t get stopped at that blockade; if I had stolen the Jeep sooner; if I didn’t have to convince Radar to let me take it -- I could have made it. Those ten minutes will haunt me forever with their what-ifs.”

“He could still write,” BJ suggests.

“Nah. Words were never Trap’s strong suit.”

“Maybe he couldn’t say it because he didn’t know how. Saying goodbye to someone you love, someone you don’t know if you’ll ever see again -- it’s not easy.”

His voice is tight, and Hawkeye imagines he’s speaking from experience, thinking of his wife and newborn daughter he left behind when he came to this corner of hell on earth, and suddenly BJ doesn’t feel like just a friend anymore, but the comrade in arms he really is -- like they’re looking at each other with open eyes for the first time.

“Thanks, Beej.” Hawkeye says, his eyes feeling heavy, and he knows it won’t be long now until he succumbs to the gin and emotional exhaustion. “Even if you decided to tell Frank everything -- my load would feel a little lighter on my way to the noose.”

“Don’t line up for the firing squad just yet. I’m pretty positive you’re the only person here that will make this place bearable for _me._ ”

Hawkeye glances up at his blue eyes and wide, open smile and wonders how long his optimism will last before the war steals it from him -- even as he thinks it, his heart flutters with the slightest bit of hope.


End file.
